


with gold to my head and straight down to my knees

by skywalkwithme



Series: someday we'll linger in the sun [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: F/M, Love, nastiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 12:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19973749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkwithme/pseuds/skywalkwithme
Summary: He glances at the queen, and her beautiful face is tight, her mouth twitching up.“You know.” he whispers.





	with gold to my head and straight down to my knees

**Author's Note:**

> ????? so this is very pretentious and the result of mixing sally rooney and thomas malory  
> malory: “And so the noise sprang in King Arthur’s court that Sir Lancelot had begotten a child upon Elaine, the daughter of King Pelles; wherefore Queen Guenivere was wroth, and she gave many rebukes to Sir Lancelot, and called him false knight. And then Sir Lancelot told the Queen all, and how he was made to lie by her ‘in the likeness of you, my lady the queen’.   
> And so the Queen held Sir Lancelot excused.”
> 
> me: would she though

“What is her name?”

It’s August. Down in the fields below, the men, tanned nut-brown, are bringing in the hay, cutting sheaves with long curving blades and hauling the bundles into carts, their wives and children beating the rumps of their horses to keep the cart wheels turning. The grass is yellow in the heat, the sky blazing blue. Arthur has led the court out for a midday feast, a celebration of the haying. There is pheasant and jellies, and currants that look like blood on the white tablecloth. 

They are not at the feast- they are away, up a small hill, watching the court move around below them. Lancelot can catch the glint of the gold of the circlet Arthur wears, the hoist of a goblet in his fine square hand.

“What is her name?” The queen says.

“My lady, whose?”

The queen snorts derisively. “The maid in the blue dress. Of few years. You know.”

He does not look at the queen. “She is called Elaine. Of Corbenic.”

“She wishes for you to look at her.”

“I know this, my lady.”

“How did you come to know this?”  
He looks at her now. Her small mouth, her blue-eyed gaze like a small knife. Her hair is parted in the middle, divided into two glossy braids over her temples, and there are a few soft, curling strands around her ears. There is a ribbon around her throat, and he wants to pull on it with his teeth, but he does not.

“I encountered her in an adventure. She was trapped by the sorceress Morgan le Fay, in a boiling bath-“

“And you saved her.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“But how do you know of her feelings?”

“She.” He looks down. On the long, white table, the lords and ladies are seated. A troubadour is singing, with two men behind him on instruments too small to make out. Deeds of arms, great victories. There is a platter of baked apples brought out by servants clad in red. Elaine is there, in her blue dress, with her long dark hair. She is next to a man he does not know. Her face is bent towards the troubadour, as if straining to listen. The table is so blindingly white it hurts to look at.

He had been away a year, maybe more. His riding sores had hardened. When he slept, his hand curled the way it did when he held his sword. He knew the catches and slides of his armour the way one knows their own body. He was the greatest knight in the world. He badly needed a proper wash. 

He didn’t divulge his name. He rescued ladies, he killed highwaymen, he evaded capture. He slew two giants, and one dragon. His armour shone like the sun and his sword was faster than light. 

He had told Elaine of Guinevere, after he had rescued her from the boiling bath, and they sat at dinner in her castle. She had reached across the table and taken both his hands in her small warm ones, and looked up at him, her face round and blossoming. He had laid his hand overtop hers, patted it gently, and told her of his lady, Arthur’s queen, trying to be gentle. 

That night Guinevere had come and sat down on his bed.

Of course he knew it was her. It was a ridiculous attempt, but then, she was very young. 

“My knight.” Not-Guinevere had said, and stroked his face with her hand. 

“She approached me.” he says to real Guinevere.

He glances at the queen, and her beautiful face is tight, her mouth twitching up. 

“You know.” He whispers.

Elaine’s body- Guinevere’s body- had been soft and white like flour dough. She kept her arms closed tightly around his back, her hot breath in his ear. 

“Not til now.” Says the queen, her voice low.

“My lady“ he says. Then Guinevere pushes him once hard, on the chest, and he falls back onto the grass. She stands up and presses her shoe down on the side of his face.

Her fists are clenched by her side, trembling. She pushes her shoe down.

He looks up at her from the one eye he can open. The sun is behind her head, dazzling him, casting her in shade. He lies there like a pinned rabbit, breathing very fast.

Her eyes are wide and so blue, her mouth slightly open. The pressure of her shoe is like a kiss, or a very slow punch. He thinks, if she decided to take her knife and drive it through my head, I would let her. I would not move. 

When a highwayman cut through his leather jerkin and scraped a knife across his ribs, he had thought of her, and the same when the first giant landed a blow on his shield, held above his head, and he had felt the bones of his first two fingers break. The dragon's tail had lashed across his thigh, and he had thought, disorientingly, of her fine long neck.

He wishes she would really hurt him.

The queen removes her shoe and paces quickly away, green silk skirts sweeping. He lies there, the sun burning his eyes, for a long time.

When he comes down the hill, the queen is seated next to the king, pouring him ale from a flagon. Gawain has told a joke and she is laughing, her mouth red and open. Arthur reaches forward for his cup, but she gets to it first, bringing it to her mouth for a sip, eyes on him, then letting him drink. Everyone laughs at her boldness.

Lancelot stands near the table, and the king’s eyes fall on him. “Ah! Lancelot! We have missed you at our feast. There is a seat by Bors.”

Lancelot bows.

“A drink for Lancelot! For the grand deeds of the best knight of the world! Pure, bold, and chivalrous!”

The knights lift their cups. “To Lancelot!”

The queen looks at him and lifts her cup, smiling. "To Lancelot!" she says. Her other hand clutches so hard on her cutlery her knuckles are white.

**Author's Note:**

> god i just love every time in le morte darthur when malory is like.... ah well, love was... different.. in those days
> 
> like true i don't know what these people are doing either


End file.
